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These Disunted

Ununited?
What will the Europeans refer to them as?
What do they refer to them as?

Misrepaired.

Disrepaired.

Disanthropic.

-I was still visiting her in The Republic of Texas.
The Frienship State.

I was visiting her, deep in the heart of Texas.
I was still a miserable coot.

-I have plans in the next few weeks to tour these Still United.
I may be intermittent in my missives.

So you should send me your address
if you hope to get one.

;

I bought her Clorox Bleach spray to get rid of these Pharoah Ants.
-mindlessly aligned who knows why.
and I got us a bottle of wine,
because we both know we’re broke,
and last night was fun
and some days its nice to just do nothin.

;

but she can buy her own damn whiskey
if she wants it so much. 

,

yes and no but here I am
washing dishes now
setting the limits of a clean sink with her.

~

I couldn’t for the life of me
be her a/c repair
by gift of skill or
god’s good graces of green
to make it better.

;

Do you think it’s any wonder we’re all like this?
Do you look at me
Boomer

Bloomers do you look at me
as some facet of millenial?
what of this generation do you feel?

Is it a slur
in your mouth?

Is it in his?

;

What is the good grace of ye who read me?
What ever brought you to my doorstep
and why are you still here?

Or have you made it here
after a long long journey
through space and time;
backwards, it seems
after all was said and done.

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For this reason it is impossible to say how long an infinite game as been played, or even can be played, since duration can be measured only externally to that which endures. //

It is impossible to say in which world an infinite game is played, though there can be any number of worlds within an infinite game.

8, Finite and Infinite Games

 

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Dos Hijos en el Mismo Año

We used to be jews. Did you know that? I certainly didn’t/

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My great great great . . .  great great grandparents (g-g-g-g-g-g-g-grandfather gets the cred); 9 generations ago the fountainhead of my lineage fled Spain (se vinieron huyendo) under the growing shadow of the Spanish Inquisition.

And  on my father’s side, presumably, at the same time, presumably, our old indian blood was kicking the desiccated heads of our enemies through those little 5 foot-wide concrete hoops (little given the relative difficulty of at that moment scoring such a game-winning point with all the tribe’s hot fertile girls in estrual frenzy), scooping, whooping hoots of looped hoop glory into the black and studded glimmer night.

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Family will save you,
you know.

Happy 4th.

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Sup Penpal

I have the house to myself for night
and she’s not callin’.

//

I think I’m just way past calling first
at this point.

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She sounds like she needs space,
so that’s what I’m gonna give her.

·؎

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I’m back to running, because I’m a slob, because I want to look good.
I want to glisten.

Listen, my prose is weak. I’ve lost a great deal of myself. & this isn’t due to the burning of my family archives.

Man, I’ve lost a real great deal of my fire.
I’ve lost that –ooomph.
I lost that dangerously ravenous spirit that stirred in my breast.

I’ve softened, you know?

;;

I took my dad to the Rothko chapel
because I didn’t want him staying up at night
on the basis of my salvation.

 

I took him to show him what head space feels like. Inner space, I guess. I wanted to show him I found peace on this earth in a way I can actually carry with me. The most pallative place I knew.

I took him and he walked right past the books, straight into the cavern.
He kinda walked around still unsure what was happening.

I walked him back to look, and he grabbed the bible
of course.

I grabbed prayers & meditations of Baha’u’llah.
I actually had wanted the –

-Fireworks? Gunshots?
They seem so methodical, but casually out of sync enough to suggest a fallibility of inner tempo. hm.

Lotus Sutra.

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·؎

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I feel that’s it for this one.
It’s been fun.
Take Care!

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Shower

Someone thanked me today for being nice.
It wasn’t like we’d ever met (at least not to either of our knowledge), and it was not like they had met the reputation that was me; they said it as someone who never got a kind glance their way and was probably bullied their whole life til now, even now.
They said thanks for not judging or stopping conversation when they approached.
They felt included.

That’s the small bit I give back to you, America.

Can I trust you to give it back?

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Stasis

It’s worrisome to some extent that I do not quit my job. I should, I really should, at least in the best interest of my own self-preservation. & I don’t mean to the extent that someone will come down to my store, a random act of malevolent terrorism striking fear into the local citizenry. There is no “terrorism” on that scale, only theater.

I don’t fear right-armed, white-armed, red-blooded-necked militia men coming to expunge the local liberal presence. I don’t think anyone can walk out of here hating it.

Bronx Hotel / Airport Terminal / Public figure : Theatrics :: Grocery Stores : Terrorism
Local Retail.

;

I should quit this place but it gives me an odd freedom I’m sure everyone think’s I’m squandering. It is also a devastating anchor of complacency.
But I get to see the worst of them walk in here, those most despaired american’s looking for some panacea, some momentary distraction from the drudgery that does not come in the brand packaging of a chemical formula. I get to see those people who voted against me, against their best interest, I see sheep fleeced and unknowingly so; I see people who are brainwashed the minute they put this screen before them // & I see their kids.
I see them come in here, finding that damn mario game and pokemon that their kid just can’t get out of his head, come searching from all over town for the puzzle piece they hope puts their kid back together.

I see a lot of despair here, known and unknown.
Some days it feels I’m here to stem the flow of ignorance.

Case in point:
Why does a beloved customer come in today, all joy and sparkles because I’ve fixed his son’s dead gameboy, why does he come in and switch midway through the visit to issue a jeremiad against the tyranny of gendered pronouns?
And how does this young millenial react?

Turning his hatred into humour, following his anger down into it’s absurdist nadir, grabbing him by his blue collar and plunging us both to find the splinter strife stuck somewhere in his psyche.

;

What other job offers me such opportunity?
Where else do case studies fling themselves at your feet?

 

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Alignment

I let music guide my mood, and I wish I could tell you what the shadow felt like, what the grand fear of my ancestors felt like, what it feels like to have your heart and mind explode.

But the music I want to hear steers me clear.

At times I question my own humanity. Not in the sense of morality, not like I don’t know right from wrong. I know murder, I know thievery, I know greed. They are not my fears.

I’m not afraid I’m evil.

And that may not be a fear we think we know we have. But I feel ok.
And I feel Aleppo.

One.
Two

When words fail to move us what is left?
Full immersive 3D High Res footage to make us feel? To Jolt humanity back unto our desensitized selves?

Is that the long term goal we’re racing towards? A century so caught up in the self
we’ll need the robots to forcefeed us back our own sense of empathy?

2.

Her sketching is very different than mine.
She’s so much more a graphic designer.
Heavy strokes.

I’m very light and airy sketches.
There’s really not much form when I get started.
It’s a few tries before I start to feel satisfied.

; I know her better than anyone else
and she knows me too.

Is that love tho’, boo?
♫؎

I don’t tend to feel human
because I don’t tend to feel I’ve felt those human milestones.

;

What was it like
breaking up with your first love?

;

What was it like to leave for college?

;

What’s it like having a kid?

;

I took my father to the Rothko.
Because when you’ve lost your job and need a place to think,
where do you hope someone will take you?

I took my dad to the Rothko,
and read the Psalms beside him.

I wanted to argue something,
because I value a good fight;
I wanted to argue something
like don’e fear for me.

I’ll be ok.

I can die aight.
& I hope I can teach my niece as well
to forgive you
for what you’ve done
to this planet.

— – – – – – – – -8< – – – – – – – – — – –  — – – – – – – –

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I hope you understand
I’d face hell for someone else.

I hope you get it.
It’s not about me.

Like, I hope you an understand,
I’m not worried about God’s love.

I’m worried others can sense they feel it too.

I hope they find comfort
even in their hatreds.

I hope they can sleep at night.

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& how can I do that father?
Oh hey Zues on high;
how can I let someone believe in their god
if I’ve got my own to proclaim first?

How could they believe I mean it?

How could they ever think I’d really love them
if I don’t think they’d see my heaven?

Would you see it?

Would your husband see yours?

Would my father see any of ours?

;

I miss her
but I made her a promise
I’d give her space.

I said to her,
-I promise I’ll try to understand.
-“Huh! What do you still not understand after all these years?”

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hmmm.
So I promised her space instead.

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au revoir mein cherie.
hast / til / vou / s

·؎

 

 

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Emergence

Don’t take it personally my sudden lack of voice.
I’m over it. There was nothing done wrong by any of the viewing parties.

I haven’t had a nice quiet moment alone in quite some time.
That last week of May that barreled into the start of Juno’s month had her visiting, of which I wrote a bit.
Follow that by a week leading up to her birthday, not in any way earth-moving but a secondary plotline traversing somewhere in the occipital region of the headspace, whilst I and compatriot, lieutenants? packed and racked ourselves into worry warts as big chief boss left us for a family vacay on the emerald isle, a vacation destination, time and derivation equal so to the wandering travels of one Leopold Bloom, Dublin June 16th of whatever millenia you wish to take part in; Aye, that was somewhere in those shadow dates.

& after that to #Orlando, tertiary week and full sun cycle since that other casual mass killing. A city strong and hashtag blown for solidarity and some soft commercial capital on the side, a city who’s streets I wondered just the same oblivious or non coerced against wandering and exploring time be come be damned.
& we found a speakeasy.

& finally upon my return home, after a fortnight bouncing ’bout, come home to find father bouncing dearest niece and nephew ‘pon his lap, mimicking the sound of kamikaze engines in the sky as the plastic spoon sought its central target, chasing around in the middle of the day two frenetic supergiants in the make, father, son, grandfather all in one, guarding castor/pollux for the day.

You know,
cause he got laid off.

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ha

And what is this sensible son to do?
Get high and play pretend?
What good is it to sit here once again
and play make believe with you?

Is it good?
Is that what I bring with it, with me?
Is it Good.?

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